


The Healer Has the Bloodiest Hands

by fizzfooz



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Eventual Smut, Fluff, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Slash, all the companions - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-02
Updated: 2015-03-02
Packaged: 2018-03-16 02:02:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3470270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fizzfooz/pseuds/fizzfooz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hawke finds it's not so easy to escape his former companions.</p><p>A.K.A. I had a burning desire to write the DA2 companions in Inquisition, and also to write various Dragon Age dudes hooking up with each other. So... This.</p><p>"The healer has the bloodiest hands. You cannot treat a wound without knowing how deep it goes. You cannot heal pain by hiding it. You must accept. Accept the blood to make things better.” - Solas</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Healer Has the Bloodiest Hands

Trevelyan wondered if he would ever feel less awkward sitting on a throne in the middle of what might as well be his very own castle. He'd certainly feel less awkward without hundreds of eyes watching him. He was the Inquisitor and all, and he had to put on an impressive front, as Vivienne kept insisting, but did his front have to be so public? Today, there seemed to be more of an audience than usual. Cullen had turned up for this judgement, standing at Trevelyan's left, Josephine in her usual place on his right. The rest of his party stood among the crowds, and Maker help him, whatever he did someone was bound to whine at him about it. As much as he loved his companions, sometimes he felt like a nursemaid to a particularly unruly rabble of children.

“Josephine?” he said.

Josephine said a couple of words to the soldiers, as commanding in her own way as Cullen was. Cullen himself looked strained. Trevelyan saw why, as the prisoner was dragged before the throne and his hood pulled down. Gasps and even a scream erupted from the crowds. Then a buzz of shocked – and loud – conversation. It took a while for them to quiet enough that Trevelyan could be heard. Varric pushed his way to the front of the crowd. And then everyone turned to Trevelyan. Their expectation was almost palpable. If Trevelyan wasn't wearing a helmet it would probably crush his head.

Anders. Either the monster who had blown up a Chantry, or the hero who had liberated all of the mages in Thedas.

“Our troupes found him hidden in a shack in Fereldan,” Cullen said. “They thought it best to bring him to you.”

Of course they did. For some reason, everyone seemed to think Trevelyan knew how to handle any situation that arose. Not only that, but that he was somehow qualified to make everyone else's major life decisions. 

“The charges are--” Josephine started, but Trevelyan held up a hand. Everyone in Thedas knew the charges.

Anders looked... tired, above all else. Bags under his eyes and lines around his mouth. Hair and beard overgrown. It was hard to see him as a monster in the flesh, although some of the crowd certainly did, by the occasional heckle.

“Do you have anything to say for yourself?” Trevelyan asked.

“Everything I did, I did for the freedom mages,” Anders said. “You wouldn't be here, free to judge me, if I had not.”

Trevelyan sighed. If they had been words of contrition or apology, he might have been able to justify a llighter sentence. Instead, the crowd grew louder. And louder. And rowdier. Until Cullen had to bark an order to quiet down. For a moment, Trevelyan thought they might have a riot on their hands, but they settled. Trevelyan removed his helmet to massage his temples. Maker, he was sure he'd go to bed with a migraine tonight. He shouldn't have responsibility like this. Shouldn't have to decide whether to let another man live or die. And if he let this particular man live, there _would_ be a riot. Along with other, more serious, consequences.

Anders didn't look afraid. He met Trevelyan's eyes. Anders looked not unlike a stray dog that had been kicked so many times it turned vicious, ready to snap at anyone who showed it any kind of attention. The expression on his face just dared Trevelyan to sentence him.

Trevelyan would have to take his head himself. No matter that he wasn't a guardsman or an executioner. That he'd never trained in these matters. He was the Inquisitor, somehow supreme ruler of the little fiefdom they called Skyhold. Everyone deferred to him, even the bloody Chantry. If he killed Anders, they'd be happy. A faction of the rebel mages would be after Trevelyan's head, but someone always was. And Anders would be a martyr to some. In some way, Trevelyan thought that was what Anders wanted him to do. Hiding even from the people you'd given everything to free was no kind of life. Or... Trevelyan's stomach flip-flopped. He could make Anders tranquil. The inquisition might make some use of him, then. The Chantry would approve. His companions would likely not – perhaps Vivienne and Sera.

And he'd have started another war. No. Best not.

“Inquisitor?” Josephine said.

They all expected him to make these awful decisions in a heartbeat. He wanted time to agonise properly, even though he knew there was only one choice. Had always been only one choice. “Anders,” he said. “I sentence you--”

With impeccable flair for the dramatic, Hawke burst through the double doors to the main hall. They thudded against each wall with the force of it. The crowd parted for him, like he was using force magic to push them aside. He placed himself in front of Anders like a human shield.

“Hawke?” Anders said, in a small, tight voice that made Trevelyan's heart clench.

“Might I say a few words, Inquisitor?” Hawke said.

Trevelyan gaped at Hawke, then forced himself to close his mouth. _Presentation, darling_ , as Vivienne would say. “Of course, Champion.”

“I won't deny Anders' crimes--”

“Hawke,” this time Anders' voice was harsher.

Hawke ignored him. “But he is a talented healer. Perhaps the most talented I've ever encountered.”

“I don't need you to plead for my life, Hawke,” Anders said, in a low voice.

The expression that flitted across Hawke's face would be imprinted in Trevelyan's mind for a long time. So lost. Trevelyan knew that feeling intimately. Knew what it was like when the world was looking at you for answers, and you had none. And he watched it wash away the instant it came, to be replaced by the mantle of the Champion. Trevelyan gave him the briefest nod, Inquisitor to Champion, to show that he understood the need to just be a human sometimes. And humans protected their friends, no matter what the rest of Thedas thought of them.

Sparing Anders' life would not be unprecedented. Trevelyan had spared Alexius, with the argument that he could help the inquisition with his magic. No one had baulked at that, and Alexius would have destroyed the world. Of course, no one had actually experienced said ruination of the world, and the mage rebellion had been experienced by everyone to a greater or larger extent. But... A healer. A truly talented healer. The Inquisition had a few mages who knew a couple of healing spells, and a surgeon who seemed a little too keen to bleed her patients, some herbalists, but nothing like Anders. Hawke had given Trevelyan exactly what he needed to avoid an execution. Who could blame him when the Inquisition was in such dire?

“Anders,” he said, again. “You--”

While it wasn't quite the entrance Hawke had made, due to the double doors already being open, it was something. A rather striking elf stormed into the main hall, steam rising off him as the warm air met the ice encrusted around his travelling cloak.

“Hawke!” he snarled.

“Fenris?” Hawke said.

“Maker, this isn't my day,” Anders muttered.

The elf – Fenris, Trevelyan should have recognised him frm Varric's _Tale of the Champion_ – seemed to realise that Hawke wasn't the only person in the room. He looked at the crowd, Trevelyan on his throne, Anders in front of it, glared at all of them, and then melted into the audience. Trevelyan waited a few beats, until he was sure no one else was going to interrupt, then tried to look as regal as he could.

“Anders,” he said. “You've taken many lives. Make amends by saving them. You will serve the Inquisition as a healer--” Trevelyan raised his voice to be heard over the various squawks of outrage. “Under supervision, of course.”

Hawke breathed a sigh of relief. Trevelyan heard the thank you, even if Hawke couldn't voice it. Anders didn't look quite as thrilled. “A prisoner?” he said. For a moment, Trevelyan was sure he would aim a fireball at his face, then Hawke turned and put a hand on Anders' shoulder.

“Please,” Hawke said. “Don't throw your life away. Not again.”

*****

They put Anders in a cosy little room that might have been nice if it weren't a prison. _No cage can hold us,_ Justice said. Which might be true. With some effort and planning, he could probably escape. But why bother? The Chantry, a good chunk of the mages, and now the Inquisition were after him. It would be like his days back in Kinnloch Hold all over again, escaping just to be dragged back time and time again. He'd expected the Inquisitor to kill him. He hadn't expected Hawke to intervene. Which had been stupid, in retrospect. Hawke had spent nearly a decade looking out for him – interfering – why would he stop now? The guards exchanged idle chit-chat outside Anders' door. They didn't mention Anders, or Hawke, or that scene in the throne room. Perhaps they were used to this sort of thing.

Anders sat on the edge of a small, too-comfy bed. Perhaps they expected him to sleep? The guards who had escorted him in here hadn't given him any instructions. There wasn't much else in the room; an empty shelf where he could store possessions if he had any, and a basin for him to wash in. He availed himself of the basin. He considered asking for a razor, but that was bound to be viewed with suspicion, so he splashed his too-hairy face a few times.

Hard to believe not a few moments ago, he had been ready to make a last stand. To force the inquisitor to kill him with Justice's righteous fury burning in his mind – _we will never be imprisoned again_. All it had taken was one look from Hawke. A hand on his shoulder.

“Wanting. So much wanting. Stupid. Expected anger or hatred. I never thought he'd look at me like that again.”

Anders whipped around, a fireball half-formed, because that had neither been him nor Justice. A boy in a big, floppy hat was crouched on the bed. Cute, in an awkward sort of way, although far too young for Anders.

“Always looking now. It used to be easy. Any pretty partner I wanted in my bed. I was so much more and so much less before Justice.”

Anders wasn't sure whether to unleash the fireball or not. Having his thoughts narrated to him was disconcerting, but a little bit of confusion probably wasn't a good enough excuse. Anders let the fireball _whump_ out of existence. “Who are you?”

“Cole. You are Anders, and not-Anders.”

 _Get it away from me._ Justice did the equivalent of backing away in Anders' mind. “It?” The boy, Cole, whose face was mostly hat at this point didn't react. “Look, I'm talking to a brim. Can I at least see who's under there?”

Cole lifted off the hat. Anders upgraded his assessment of awkward but cute, to awkward but very cute. Maker, why did that matter? Honestly, one glance from Hawke and suddenly he was a randy teenager again.

_It's a demon._

“I was a demon,” Cole said. “But not anymore. If I become that again, Cassandra promised to kill me.”

_It lies. Kill it._

“Burn it down. Burn everything down. Too-bright blue cracking, taking over his restraint. Remake the world so it's just. It used to be so clear, now it's muddied by the anger, so much anger. Tamped down by his restraint but bolstered by his rage. I am justice. I am justice. I am justice. _Please_. I don't want to be vengeance anymore.”

_Make it stop._

“But you hurt,” Cole said, as if it was that simple. “You both hurt, twisted, all knotted up, hurting each other while you hurt yourselves. I can help.”

The back of Anders' eyes itched. He told himself it was fatigue, and pinched the bridge of his nose when a scrim of tears blurred his vision. “What...? What are you?”

“A spirit. Like your friend. I can help. You don't have to be an abomination. You don't have to be a demon. You can come back, like I came back.”

“You want to help me?” Anders said. The pang of longing in his chest wasn't entirely Justice's. “After everything I did?”

“You were trying to help.”

It was that, after everything, that wrung tears from Anders' eyes. “Leave,” he said, in a hoarse, choked voice.

“You don't want anyone's help. You want our anger. Why? It hurts you.”

“Get out!” Anders' shout was loud enough to summon the guards. When they came into the room, swords at the ready, Cole was gone.

*****

Right. Trevelyan had evaded most of the crowd, every single one of whom wanted to berate him, and he swore Sera was going to put an arrow in his ass, but now he'd dealt with Anders he had the other one to deal with. Fenris. He and Hawke were talking in one of the corners of the main hall. At least, Hawke was talking. Fenris was shouting, and getting steadily louder. Varric was watching them from his usual spot. Trevelyan sighed. Either he was interrupting a lover's quarrel or a regular quarrel, and Fenris looked like he might murder someone just for the hell of it. Well, if he was going to do this thing, he was going to do it now.

“Hawke,” Trevelyan said. “Varric led me to believe you'd be joining us alone.”

“That was the plan,” Hawke said.

Fenris glared at Trevelyan, but at least he didn't try to murder him. “I received word that you'd captured the abomination,” he said. “And I believed Hawke might do something foolish.”

Received word, had he? Trevelyan tossed Varric a glare of his own. Varric mimed a dagger to his heart. “Anders is a prisoner of the Inquisition now. I'll see to it that he harms no one else. I trust the Inquisition nor any of its members have nothing to worry about from you?”

“If I wished to harm the abomination, I had ample opportunity to do so before now. I came here because I would not let Hawke throw his life away to defend him.”

“That was never a danger,” Trevelyan said. “I would not have harmed the Champion.”

“You would have had to, to put the abomination down.”

Hawke shook his head. “It wouldn't have come to that.”

“You started a war with Starkhaven to keep him alive. Do not tell me you value your life more than the safety of Kirkwall.” Hawke winced. Fenris rounded on Trevelyan. Oh good, apparently it was his turn. “You are a fool to let him live. Your enemy is a mage who seeks to rule, is he not? Has the abomination not proven, once and for all, that he values the lives of mages above all others?”

“If Anders can save the lives of my men, then I need him here, no matter what he's done.” If Trevelyan started kicking murderers out, he'd have no one left. Maybe some of the cooks, although last night's stew may still prove to be lethal. “The inquisition cannot turn away resources until Corypheus is dealt with. Speaking of which, I've read the Tale of the Champion.”

Fenris gave Varric a special glare of his own. “Do not believe the dwarf's tales about me.”

“Believe me, I take Varric's stories with a full basin of salt. But I understand you're a capable warrior.”

“An excellent warrior,” Hawke said. Trevelyan valued his limbs too much to mention the way Fenris straightened up and half-smiled at that. “Fenris is a force all by himself.”

“Varric also told me that you've been tracking down slavers.”

“Yes,” Fenris said. “And I mean to return to it.”

“I would be happy to lend the inquisition's support, if you were to remain with us. Cullen's forces would benefit greatly from your experience. When not training you'd be free to spend your time as you wish, and make full use of our forces to ferret out slavers and missing slaves.”

Fenris eyed him with great suspicion. Maker, were all of Hawke's friends so difficult? “What would you gain from that?”

“A lot more personal satisfaction than I get from helping some Orlesian Marchess snipe at some other Orlesian Marchess. Besides which, former slaves have skills which, should they choose to join us, the inquisition can make use of.” Trevelyan caught Hawke's smile from the corner of his eye. “And, if you wished, there's a mad Tevinter cult whose plans we like to scupper. Cullen's forces would welcome your assistance, I'm sure.”

“And your soldiers will take orders from an elf?”

“They'd damn well better. Anyone who won't isn't welcome here.”

Fenris looked to Hawke. “It's up to you, Fenris.”

Hawke and Trevelyan exchanged another look, den mother to fellow den mother this time.

“Stopping Corypheus is a noble cause,” Fenris said. “I will join you, Inquisitor.”

“Thank you. You can discuss arrangements will Cullen. I believe you two already know each other?”

Hawke watched Fenris wander off to find Cullen, beaming like a proud dad. The smile faded, and his brow knitted. “Ah...” he said.

“What is it?”

“Your companions. I've heard talk of a magister?”

“An altus.”

“And a demon?”

“Spirit of compassion. You may be the only other person in the world who won't squint at me for this, but I trust them both. No one in Skyhold or beyond has anything to fear from them.”

Hawke frowned more deeply, and chewed his lip as he continued to watch Fenris and Cullen. “No, I'm sure it'll be fine,” he said, finishing a conversation Trevelyan hadn't been privy to.

*****

What seemed like hours later, Anders was still in the same room. He'd say they'd forgotten him if he wasn't still under guard. Maybe this was some sort of test. Leave him alone, see if he blew anything up. A poor test. He might blow up the bed out of sheer boredom. But... Boredom was a privilege he hadn't had for the longest time. Outside of Skyhold, Justice was angry, or Anders was angry, or they both were, bickering in their head, and there was the constant _scritch scritch scritch scritch_ of another voice added to the throng. His calling. Which he hadn't been surprised about. He was older than most Wardens lived to after the Joining. But a real calling wouldn't just... stop. The longer he stayed in the room, the more his anger, a constant companion over the last few years, ebbed away.

 _Do not question_ , Justice said. _Be grateful that we can continue our work._

Work? There was nothing left to do. The Circles were gone. The templars were scattered. The mage rebellion didn't need him, and they emphatically didn't want him. Apart from those few mad lookalikes in the Hinterlands who wanted to be him, and shouted lines from his manifesto even though they'd never understood it. Or him.

Anders eventually asked one of the guards for a razor, to shave. They allowed it but one of them stayed to guard him and watched him scrape off every last hair. Then took the razor away. Anders rubbed his bare chin. His hair had always grown fast. By tomorrow he'd have stubble again. He washed himself too, and changed into the fresh clothes that had been provided for him. Not mage robes, he noted; a simple tunic, breeches, and boots. He hand-scrubbed his robes just for something to do. Justice was content when he indulged in simple chores, ablutions, and tending to his routine needs. Something that had never had a body of its own could never understand on more than a basic level, and Justice found it fascinating still. Like an ornithologist watching the day-to-day habits of rare birds. It had been a respite even during the worst times. 

Voices outside his door made Anders look up from scrubbing his coat. Murmured, genial voices, like someone had stopped to chat to the guards, ask them about their day, and was genuinely interested in what they had to say about it.

Shit.

Anders realised who it was about half a second before he entered the room. Anders actually considered hiding under the bed. Too late. Varric was already inside, arms crossed over his chest, and what was wrong with Anders that he wanted to tear up at the sight of Varric's chest hair? A source of so many silly jokes with Isabela and Hawke, when he'd been able to joke, when he'd had friends...

“Anders,” Varric said.

Anders winced at the use of his name. He wasn't Blondie any more, then. “Varric.”

“I knew this apostate once, screwed in the head, but most of my friends are, tried to give me a tiny pillow, then blew up a Chantry.”

Anders closed his eyes and breathed through his nose, expecting a Justice flare-up at that. That was how it had been when any of the mages confronted him about the Chantry. _It was necessary. Freedom has a price._ This time, Justice just... Wallowed. Sniffing and huffing in Anders' mind like a child scolded by a stern father. Justice really was different in Skyhold. “What did you come here to say, Varric?”

“His Inqusitorialness wanted me to be sure I could be around you without shooting you full of bolts,” Varric said. The tone was as friendly as always, but Varric's eyes were hard. “I wanted to know for myself, too.”

Anders stood up straight and opened his arms out, exposing his chest. “Well?”

Varric drew the crossbow and pointed it straight at him. Not Anders' chest, which he'd so generously presented, but at his head. No chance of survival even for a healer. Anders didn't move. Justice gave a listless attempt to come to the fore, but Anders rebuffed him easily. For a while, they just breathed, Varric with the crossbow cocked, Anders looking him in the eye. Sometimes there was a glint in Varric's eyes that said he would do it, his finger crooking around the trigger, but never applying pressure. Anders wasn't afraid either way.

“Blondie's not himself anymore. Angry. Too tired and too thin. Bags under his eyes. Shadows in the gaunt of his cheeks.”

Anders and Varric broke the stand-off to glance at Cole, who was sitting on the bed with his legs dangling over the side.

“Kid!” Varric said, lowering the crossbow. What did he call that ridiculous thing again? A woman's name. Beth? Brittany? _Bianca._

“Less and less of Blondie. More of the thing in his head. Can't help anymore. Won't let me help. Sometimes there's nothing anyone can do. Then it's burning, raining bricks and mortar and bones, and it's... Shit, Blondie... What have you done, Blondie? I could have stopped this. Could have done more. I noticed and I decided there was nothing--”

“Enough, kid,” Varric said. His voice was gentler than expected.

“We were friends once,” Cole said, and Anders grimaced. Oh good. Apparently it was his turn. “All I ever wanted was to be a good friend. That's how everything started. But I ruin everything I touch. Justice, and everyone who ever looked kindly on me. When I help I hurt. I'm supposed to be a healer but everything falls apart under my hands.”

Anders closed said hands into fists. It wasn't fair, being laid bare like this. For him, or for Varric. But he didn't know how to stop it, and Cole apparently didn't know how to stop himself.

“Rage, bleeding into everything like the taint, sharing more blighted flesh, but this one is more. Has more. Feels. Every injustice lances through it. Selfish and fighting and resisting. Always resisting. But the anger changes him, moves him to action, consumes me and consumes him.”

“Enough,” Varric said, more forcefully this time.

“But I don't understand,” Cole said. “You were friends, you want to be friends again, and you wanted to kill him. If you kill him, you'll never be friends. You want him to be happy but you want him to hurt too for what he's done.” When Cole spoke next it was a passable imitation of Varric's voice. “ _Blondie, you make it hard work to be your friend._ You will do the work. You said you would always do the work.”

“I say a lot of things that aren't true,” Varric said. “Just ask Cassandra.” Varric hoisted Bianca over his shoulder, and left.

Cole remained on Anders' bed. If it was anyone else – anyone else who didn't want his head on a pike – Anders might have sought comfort from him. Cole stood up and suddenly Justice was ready for a fight.

“Wanting,” Cole said. “Always wanting. Lying awake wanting contact, any contact, a smile that reaches someone's eyes, a hand in mine, someone who can tolerate me.” Cole stood on his tiptoes and pressed a chaste kiss to Anders' brow. “I can tolerate you, Anders. You don't make me afraid, Justice. You got it wrong. Sometimes I get it wrong too. Everyone says it doesn't matter, if you're trying to help.”

**Author's Note:**

> More pairings as the fic progresses, probably. 
> 
> I have a [Tumblr](fizzfooz.tumblr.com) if anyone wants to keep up with my bad Dragon Age jokes and me making plushies.


End file.
